


Ash

by Weirdlet



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alpha!Rumlow, Angst, Blood, Brainwashing, Forced Abortion, I had delusions of respectability and then I found the kinkmemes, Implied Non/Dubcon, Kink Meme, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Omega!Bucky, Other, a/b/o dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdlet/pseuds/Weirdlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier is an omega, bonded to a convenient alpha for purposes of control.  But actions have consequences, and one cannot allow an asset to be inconvenienced by pregnancy.</p><p> </p><p>(Pay attention to those warnings!  Forced miscarriage/abortion, implied dub/noncon, general HYDRA fuckery, brainwashing, A/B/O dynamics, dark, angst, blood, the whole shebang.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ash

**Author's Note:**

> Another kink-meme fill, collected here. I had delusions of respectability, and then I found the kink-memes. Semi-sequel to Jayjaybe's Burn ( http://archiveofourown.org/works/1685252 ). Original prompt found here, secondary fill- http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19023.html?thread=44621391#t44621391

The Soldier is flagging.

In order to fill the days between stages of the operation, they keep the asset busy and guarded and thoroughly occupied. A firm grip is necessary for maximum efficiency, and practice to reinforce training in place of thought, compliance in place of hesitation.

Weights and firing range are over for the day, and now the asset runs in endless laps around the same track as the rest of his fellow underground soldiers, alone but for his armed guards and, of course, his bonded handler.

Brock Rumlow is responsible for keeping the Soldier contained, controlled, and in good condition _and he is falling behind on the track_.

“Come on, fella, you want to earn your dinner, don’tcha?” he says, grinning, and slows his pace to match with the dead-eyed soldier, who presses on seemingly without a thought to the sweat standing out on his face. But the little pinch around the eyes gives it away, and his limbs move slower even as he’s trying to keep up, breathing through his nose and mouth going tight.

The asset’s output and intake are very carefully measured, when it matters. His maintenance is important because he is a tool of the state-to-be, and tools must measure up to certain standards or be discarded. At _this_ time of day with _this_ amount of nutrition and hydration, Rumlow should be getting _far better_ out of his charge’s performance.

His little killer-omega is wilting, and something is definitely out of order.

Brock keeps pace beside the Soldier, bouncing like a jogger at a stoplight as he leans in, smile still firmly in place.

“You’re getting slow, sweetheart! Come on, keep up and maybe Daddy’ll let you sleep in a bed tonight,” he whispers, and the brief surge it gets from the Soldier is half-hearted at best.

The pinched face gets paler, and the sweat pours off him and finally he’s falling to his knees in the middle of the track, dry-heaving.

Guns level and the asset stays hunched on the ground, hair hanging in his face, dripping with sweat and gasping. Brock runs the list of possible fuck-ups that have led to this discrepancy- did Sherman screw with the food intake, he’ll kill the little worm if he did, did the eggheads change the daily regimen and not fucking tell him-? Is it the cycle back again, somehow worse than normal to break through the Soldier’s ingrained stoicism?

Cycle.

Condom.

Con _doms_.

_Fuck._

Brock kneels down by the crouching omega, hauls him up by his hair and _smells_ him, burying his nose in that sweaty neck. Sick, and terror, and deep, silent stress.

And definitely, faint but there- pregnant.

 _Shit_.

 

The orders come down from the brass. The bond and use of the asset by a ranked alpha is mandated in order to keep him compliant- but any _disruption_ must be attended to. The Soldier is too valuable in the field to attempt or allow breeding.

 _This is_ not _a privilege you are capable of earning. Take care of the problem, and ensure our asset._

“Come on, fella, we’ll get you fixed up. Make it all better.”

 

The Soldier is set down in his chair, old routine in muscle-memory that he doesn’t protest nor shift when the straps come down. Confusion is plain in his dark-circled eyes, but he is meek when they slice away clothing, crank the chair back so that he reclines. IV needles follow, restorative fluids a frequent pick-me-up after missions, and the doc injects various additives into the ports, fine-tuning the mix.

Rumlow eyes him as he’s laid out, knuckles white and creaking on the arm rests, and places a calming hand on his omega’s stomach. The Soldier flinches, then relaxes into the contact when Brock doesn’t glare him down. Minute by minute, inch by imperceptible inch, the tension drains out of him. Not having been ordered to sleep, he rests, eyes sometimes flicking toward his alpha.

The doc presses his syringe to the IV port, punctures, depresses the plunger.

Brock steps back.

 

It takes a while to hit.

The Soldier grows agitated, brows knit in discomfort. His gaze rattles around the room, seeking reassurance that is not to be had, and finally focuses downward. His abdomen clenches, and he shifts again and again, trying to alleviate the growing ache.

The whimpering starts and his eyes get big and round, looking for the invisible thing that is hurting him.

Brock remains where he is and the ragged dog-whining gets louder, more desperate as the cramping gets worse. He steps back again as the Soldier’s hoarse shouts grow shriller, flying into a stream of wordless panic, and reminds himself that this is for the greater good.

Peace through order. Order through pain.

Blood leaks through, staining the air with its copper-bright scent, and the Soldier starts to scream.

The asset strains against his bonds, head thrown back- and the screams rise higher, open-mouthed, loud and unfettered like a dying animal. Brock stays where he is, tasked to oversee the outcome, and he clasps his hands at parade-rest.

It goes on a long time.

It’s amazing how long one man can scream.

His feet go numb and back stiff in the time that the asset continues to scream and there’s nothing human left in it, raw and bloody-throated- and then as suddenly as it arose the storm blows itself out, cracks off into sobbing that leaves the bowed figure slumped and trembling in the chair.

The Soldier is sobbing, shaking his head, tears and snot bubbling and it’s going to be a mess to clean him up after. His bare belly is clenched still, knees drawn up and weakly pressed together until the handlers step into the room, pull them down again.

Their gloves come away stained with red.

“Stand up.”

The bawling just continues, and the asset neither obeys nor appears to listen, but tries to curl in a ball, turning his face away from his bloodied thighs.

“-nnnno, no, _nyet_ ,” he’s moaning, and Brock’s fists go tight.

It’s beyond his paygrade to order the re-wipe, but it is a certainty that he will be held responsible if these signs of defiance go un-dealt with. Standard procedure, when the subject’s too long out of cryo and needs reconditioning to retain maximum efficiency. He’s read the file, already composing the spiel and editing on the fly so that it’s purely a matter of regular breakdown, not pushing too hard, not his fault _at all-_

Because those who threaten Order-

get Pain.


End file.
